The Nerdy Dozen #2 Page 3

Okay, maybe not the best time for jokes.

  Neil took the seat next to Yuri, who was clad in gray sweatpants with a velvety cape. The pale dungeon master gave a nod of his greasy forehead, and Neil scanned the ten other faces lining the table.

  They were the same video gamers who’d been previously recruited by the military for Neil’s last mission. They’d all been deemed the best, based on their top scores from a leaked military flight simulator, Chameleon. The scores were apparently good enough to merit a second chance at saving the world.

  Across from Neil sat the identical faces of brothers Dale and Waffles, the tips of their round ears peeling with sunburn. Incognito superhero Jason 2 smiled at Neil, a glittery black costume peeking out from under his shirt collar.

  Next to him Jason 1, sporting a freshly cut fade, threw a make-believe football at Neil. It may have actually been a make-believe cantaloupe, but Neil mimicked catching whatever it was with both hands.

  “Greetings, Lord Neil!” whispered Riley, a doughy boy wearing a dirty yellow tunic. As he bowed with a royal flourish, Neil wondered who was left at his Renaissance fair to act as swineherd.

  “Greetings, my fair pig wrangler,” Neil responded. Jones and the well-dressed stranger were busy talking, so Neil’s eyes darted to tally the remaining crew. There was JP waving hello in a sweet Taiwanese soccer jersey, and Corinne in the next swiveling chair. Her hair was wrapped into two spongy buns, and she wore a new pair of dark-brown plastic glasses. She mouthed, “Hi, Neil!” He was a bit disappointed when she didn’t spell anything using her body, the source of her spelling bee YouTube fame.

  Neil locked eyes with Trevor, who offered a kind of long, extended blink. Neil knew not to expect much more from someone he classified as a certifiable wiener.

  From the far end of the table, Neil felt another pair of eyes on him. He turned to see Sam staring straight at him. Her shiny brown hair was now tucked up in a ponytail, the front chopped into a curled row of bangs. She smiled weirdly, doing her best to hide two rows of new braces. They were silver, with tiny sparks of orange stuck to the front of each tooth.

  While Neil was happy to see everyone, it was Sam who made him feel a slight buzzing in his fingertips. As his palms grew sweaty, for reasons Neil wasn’t altogether sure of, Jones’s voice broke his trance.

  “Will do, sir,” said Jones. He stepped back from the podium, nodded at the man in the blue suit, and headed for the room’s exit.

  “Wait, you’re leaving?” blurted Biggs, his face distressed. “But who can I steal sunflower seeds from?”

  “Keep it together, Hurbigg; you’ll be fine. Keep an eye out for this one, Draymond,” said Jones, playfully pointing toward Biggs. As he stood in the doorway, he gave a salute. “You’re in good hands, team.”

  And with a swish of the doors, their former leader was gone.

  Well. This doesn’t seem to be going like I’d expected.

  Neil and the others directed their eyes back to the man in the suit.

  “The name’s Commander Draymond Finch,” the man said after clearing his throat. “And NASA needs you all.”

  The group remained hushed. Why would NASA need video gamers?

  Even though he’d barely spoken, Neil thought Finch seemed friendly. His voice was much calmer than Jones’s, plus he didn’t have that pulsing jaw muscle thing happening.

  Finch had short hair shaped like a fuzzy horseshoe that left the top of his head bald and shiny. His bushy mustache and eyebrows were speckled with gray streaks. Neil wondered if he used some kind of bowling alley grease to give his scalp such a radiant glow.

  “Normally I’d offer a proper introduction, but there’s no time to waste.”

  Neil had been waiting for months for someone to deny information because time was of the essence.

  “You all should know that Jones and I flew on our first five tours as soldiers, served together as test pilots, and I trust him like a brother,” said Finch. “So when we discussed our situation, he convinced me you all could be our only chance of success. Because honestly, we’re out of options.”

  No pressure or anything.

  The overhead lights dimmed, and above the podium a crystal clear 3-D projection appeared. It was a sleek blue orb visible from all directions, and it depicted a rotating ship, which resembled a futuristic Chameleon fused with a standard space shuttle.

  Uh-oh. That looks a lot like Shuttle Fury.

  Finch clicked a button on the tiny remote he clutched in his left hand and rolled video footage of a rocket preparing for launch. The time stamp on the clip was from the same day, just earlier in the morning.

  “As you can see, today we were set to launch one of our top-of-the-line spaceplanes, a model called the Whiptail. The craft handles similarly to the Chameleons you’ve piloted, but it can withstand the rigors of space.

  “This particular ship is the Newt. It can reach Mach 25 in less than a minute and even function like an airplane in Earth’s atmosphere,” Finch explained as the video playing showed preflight preparation accompanied by the audio of crew-member radio transmissions.

  “In other words, it’s expensive,” said Trevor.

  “You could say that,” Finch replied. “But just after oh-nine-hundred, an hour before the scheduled launch, the not-cheap spacecraft became compromised, along with our entire computer system. The only video we could recover is from an outdoor security camera.”

  “You mean, like, you were hacked?” asked JP, his huge brain already working overtime.

  “We believe, yes. Whoever it was took total control of our operating systems, completely untraced.”

  Neil watched the idling rocket, fixated as confusion and mayhem broke out over the radio frequency. The rocket attached to the shuttle began to fire, and it quickly lifted toward the stratosphere.

  “Who’s flying this shuttle? Who approved this launch!?” came a distressed voice from the recording. As voices were replaced by the explosive sounds of chemical rocket propulsion, Neil watched the graceful liftoff, following the white plumes of smoke that streaked from the ground far into the air. It looked like a shooting star.

  Wait a second—that’s what I saw at the planetarium!

  Neil hadn’t witnessed a rare asteroid or shooting star but an even rarer space shuttle hijack.

  “You mean, this was just stolen, like my sister’s bike outside of a pool hall?” chimed Biggs.

  “And didn’t the shuttle program end?” questioned Sam, who was pretty much an encyclopedia of knowledge on space, fossils, and old military slang for taking a dump.

  “Yes, technically,” Finch said to Sam before turning to Biggs. “And I’m not here to provide excuses: the ship was stolen, plain and simple. The first reported incident of grand space theft. Involving our most technologically advanced craft to date.”

  Neil could tell Finch was a bit embarrassed to admit his mission was a failure, and having to tell Jones probably didn’t help. Messing up was never fun in front of friends, especially ones who can spit sunflower shells at you.

  “But . . . ,” Finch said, “we’re proposing a mission, the likes of which has never been attempted before—using an old experimental prototype of our stolen spacecraft. The Fossil. While it isn’t exactly a conventional ship, it should still be able to get you to space and back and retrieve our stolen ship.”

  Not conventional? Is that an adult term for death trap?

  “You mean, we’re going to space?” Sam asked.

  “Yes.”

  Space.

  But Neil felt strangely confident. If he could fly a Chameleon through the clouds with ease, doing so without the constant nuisance of gravity should be easy. Right?

  “SO WE’D BE ASTRONAUTS?” NEIL ASKED IN DISBELIEF.

  “That depends. By now, I assume all you recruits are experts at Shuttle Fury,” Commander Finch said.

  Neil felt sweat prick out of every pore on his body, his stomach twisting like a wet towel. He was the opposite of an expert at Shuttle Fury.
He was an expert at being the worst.

  “I know I’m taking Jonesey’s word on a lot of this, but we at least need one hundred and fifty hours logged from you all on Shuttle Fury. You’ve all at least managed that, correct?”

  Finch’s eyes scanned the group and abruptly turned to Neil.

  “Of course,” Neil squeaked out the lie. “Sir.”

  Give or take 149 hours. . . . It’s not too late to back out, right? Everyone would understand.

  “Commander Finch, sir,” Neil said, clearing his throat with a nervous cough. “Why us? Why can’t you guys just use normal astronauts?”

  Neil’s friends shot him a look, like he’d just asked the worst question in existence. Obviously everyone wanted to go to space.

  Finch twitched his nose and mustache like some kind of furry animal. “It’s all part of Plan ’Zee,” Finch reassured, which wasn’t all that assuring. The group paused as it felt like a dark cloud passed over their ideas of glory.

  “We’re down to Plan Z? What happened to A through Y?” asked Jason 2.

  “Great. You’re already thinking like astronauts, recruits,” Finch said. “You must question everything.”

  “Well, we’re questioning, my man!” said Waffles. “Because I could make Plan W happen if need be.”

  Finch gestured for both Waffles and the incognito superhero to calm down. Neil wasn’t sure what Plan W would look like exactly, but it probably involved gallons of face paint Waffles likely smuggled with him.

  “Plan ’Zee. Short for ‘chimpanzee,’” Finch explained, clicking the remote still cradled in his hand. Another, tinier craft appeared in the blue-projected orb. “Recruits, let me introduce you to the Fossil. The only Whiptail shuttle we have left. An experimental model, as I told you. It’s a smaller, simpler design.”

  “The Fossil was the first Whiptail to be manufactured, made to cut rapidly through deep space,” Finch said. “It’s designed to be flown by a squad of highly trained chimpanzees.”

  “Is that what you guys think of us? A bunch of dirty apes?” shouted Waffles.

  “Easy, Charlie. Because it was designed for primates, the ship’s height clearance is far too short for any astronaut,” said Finch. “You’re the only people with any sort of applicable flight hours logged who are capable of flying it.”

  “Oh. Cool,” said Waffles.

  Neil knew piloting a vehicle meant for apes was a new twist, but the mission was suddenly too tempting to back out now—if a chimp could fly the Whiptail, Neil could, too.

  “We made the controls easy enough for chimpanzees to understand. From what Jones has told me, you all are an impressive lot. I have full faith in you,” Finch explained.

  Neil knew the blessing from a NASA commander was a big deal, and he was pretty sure it was all going to be fine. No one would just send kids into space unless it was completely safe. Right?

  “But to be clear, the Fossil is our only chance at stopping the thieves who have our ship,” Finch said. “There’s no telling what they intend to do with it, but we basically have a craft with enough explosive liquid fuel to act as its own nuclear device. Big enough to destroy an entire country.”

  Gotcha. Okay, so maybe not completely safe.

  “Commander Finch? How are we supposed to find a missing rocket that could be anywhere in space?” Trevor demanded, probably using arguing tactics picked up from his lawyer father.

  “Yeah!” Corinne added. “I can’t even find my mom in a grocery store. How are we going to find anybody in space? It’s huge!”

  “Once you’re in orbit, your rocket will initiate a specifically tuned radar to lead you directly to the missing spacecraft,” Finch responded. “While the thieves hacked almost everything else, from space we can still ping the missing ship’s homing beacon to force its coordinates and catch up to it in the Fossil. It’s the only ship we have that can keep up with the Newt’s speed.”

  Across the table, Sam raised her hand with a question.

  “Yes . . . ,” Finch said, skimming his manifest of young soldiers. “Samantha?”

  “Pretty much everybody calls me Sam, but whichever you prefer, sir,” she replied. “More important, how are we actually going to go to space within twenty-four hours? Astronauts train for years before they attempt something even remotely close to this.”

  Neil watched the NASA commander subtly shift. He knew Sam had a great point and that her knowledge of space far surpassed his own. Up until the age of seven, for example, he had sincerely believed the moon was made of cheese, or some kind of lactose-free space equivalent.

  “Good question,” Finch responded, lowering his clicker-wielding hand onto the podium to give Sam his full attention. “We have data that insists this experience shouldn’t be harder on you all than your previous mission. And I’ll be right with you to ensure you’re all okay,” Finch said. “But I can’t stress enough the importance of this mission’s success. You are the only people alive able to return our stolen ship.”

  Neil knew after a speech like that, there was no turning back.

  “Now, as Sam so astutely put it, you’ll be in training for the next twenty-four hours. We’ll meet up with my mission capsule communicator, or CAPCOM, Colonel Dallas Bowdin. If any of you cannot pass training, we won’t send you on the mission, simple as that. It would be a risk to the crew and mission. These are standard rules for all astronauts.”

  Astronaut. Neil repeated the word over and over in his head, his heartbeat steadily racing in excitement. Space was the ultimate adventure, the only place left for true exploration. He knew he had to prove himself worthy of the title.

  But there was a level of danger to the mission that Finch hadn’t expanded upon yet.

  Who actually steals a space shuttle in the first place?

  “Tomorrow, all of you who passed training will board the Fossil to pursue and recover our stolen ship, the Newt,” Finch said, discontinuing the video projection. He turned to the group, his words stern. “There is no dishonor if you want to leave now.”

  Everyone silently listened for movement—but not a noise was made.

  Silent, just like in space. Where we’re going. In real life.

  “Well then, it’s settled, recruits,” said Finch. “Welcome to NASA. We’ve got some work to do.”

  NEIL LOOKED AT HIS NEW NASA-ISSUED WATCH. HE LOOSENED it a notch and watched the face blink to read 20:53. He wanted to be early for the start of training, something he thought Commander Finch would appreciate. He also hoped timeliness would be valued more than mastery of the video game simulator he should have been playing all summer.

  Before darting out of the conference room, Finch had handed everyone a short test to complete. It was full of random questions about space, medical attention, and physics. Neil took his time, knowing science wasn’t exactly his strongest subject. Only last year he had asked for dismissal from biology to take gym for two periods, which was saying something.

  So while everyone else finished and headed to the locker room, Neil was last. He did a quick change into his powder-blue uniform in a bathroom stall. Within a minute Neil was squeaking down the facility in double-knotted black boots. He stood by the double doors leading into the hangar, where Finch had instructed everyone to meet. Busy technicians ran past him in pairs but saluted the lone gamer as they passed.

  “Mr. Andertol,” said a woman a few inches taller than Neil, clad in a sterilized white jumpsuit, as if she were touring a chocolate factory.

  “Miss, ah, Space-traveling Astronaut,” Neil replied with a salute, wishing her uniform had some sort of name patch. She smiled and kept moving down the hallway, her hair neatly tucked into a bleached white hairnet.

  Neil’s eyes drifted from the hustling NASA employees to the walls around him. They were lined with a slew of mission achievements and memorials; each corridor was dedicated to another feat of science and space. This was even better than the Greater Colorado Museum and Planetarium and Homestyle Buffet. It was like an astronau
t hall of fame.

  Closest to Neil were photos of NASA’s astronaut classes, framed and hung in order by year. Ranging from 1959 to the present, each photo showed a smiling group of jumpsuit-wearing astronauts, all in a hangar, space station, or science lab. Only recent shots showcased astronauts in their full suits and helmets, and they all featured cheesy smiles, posing in front of the blue NASA logo. It was reassuring to see that brave and fearless galaxy adventurers still looked awkward on class photo day.

  I should see what Commander Finch looked like with hair.

  Scanning each photograph intently, Neil tried to find the broad shoulders and impressively square jaw of his new commanding officer. His search soon stopped at 2001 and the glistening, curly locks of a young Draymond Finch.

  He stood alongside three other astronauts. One was a strapping man with a neck like a small birch tree, and another a bookish astronaut who was about a foot shorter. The only lady of the class had curly blond hair and a beautiful, slightly rectangular face.

  “Can’t believe it’s been so long,” Finch said, sidling up to Neil.

  “Since that hairstyle was okay? I know,” Neil said, getting Finch to crack a half smile for the first time.

  “Well, that, too,” Finch replied, the two of them standing in pools of reflected light on the shiny floor. “Our class was the best NASA had, or has, ever seen.”

  “Who were the others?” Neil asked. “And were you the best? I bet you were the best.”

  Finch exhaled, but the half smile was gone, almost turning into a half frown.

  “No, that honor belonged to Astronaut Jon Dewett,” Finch said, gesturing to the man on his right in the picture. “Best pilot and astronaut I’ve ever seen.”

  He was the taller, olive-skinned man from Finch’s graduating class. He was equally mustachioed, with brown hair that tapered back into a tasteful mullet. From what Neil had seen, 2001 was a pretty rough year in terms of hairstyles.